


i just can't wait for love (to destroy us)

by altissimozucca



Series: can I trust you not to love me? (let's be fwb) [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (In the last chapter though), Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Domestic Violence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Homophobia, Jos Verstappen's A+ Parenting, M/M, Max-centric, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altissimozucca/pseuds/altissimozucca
Summary: He slid down to the floor, pulled his knees up to his chin and stayed like that for hours. His father didn’t come to check on him, not that he was expecting him to. The words 'you’re not gay' continued swimming through his mind, the feeling of his father’s palm meeting his cheek still as evident as ever.Jos was wrong, though.Max was very much gay.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Dilara Sanlik/Max Verstappen (fake), Max Verstappen/Original Female Character(s)
Series: can I trust you not to love me? (let's be fwb) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635331
Comments: 11
Kudos: 158





	i just can't wait for love (to destroy us)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kakkakerssi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakkakerssi/gifts).

> \- written for @kakkakerssi; I feel bad for gifting you such an angsty work, but I began writing this because of you and for you
> 
> \- undergone major format editing  
  
trigger warnings:  
\- domestic violence  
\- homophobia  
\- attempted rape
> 
> read at your own risk

**two thousand and ten**

Max walked by the karting track where he’d be racing the next day. His father was standing behind him, chatting away on his phone to somebody and Max wasn’t bothered with trying to pick up bits of the conversation; the thirteen-year-old had his hands tucked in the pocket of his hoodie and he was scanning the area, memorising the layout of the map even though he knew it by heart already.

He could see the group of boys his age on the other side of the track, recognising some of them from the previous races; Max never was very good with remembering names. He could see Pierre, the Frenchman holding one of the kids Max’s age in a headlock. He wasn’t sure if he’d seen the shorter boy before.

Pierre waved when he noticed Max, a bright grin plastered on his face. The short boy looked in Max’s direction and smiled, also giving Max a tiny wave; their attention moved to one of the girls who came to cheer on her brothers, and Max can clearly see Pierre wiggling his eyebrows at the longer-haired boy as he began blushing wildly.

Max was watching them for a little longer, an unfathomable feeling inside of him. They were all laughing and playing around, no adult supervision around them, while Max had to follow his father like an obedient puppy. He probably wasn’t younger than most of them so he couldn’t understand his father’s need to constantly keep Max under his watchful eyes.

Jos clasped his hand on Max’s shoulder, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Let’s go, son,” he said, pulling Max farther down the track and away from the laughing group of kids. Max had tried to ignore the loneliness burning in the pit of his stomach.

Max had been under a military regime since his birth. He loved racing, but the stress his father has put him through made him despise what he usually loved the most. He wished Jos would just let him have some fun, but it has always been sleep, eat, practice, repeat and Max hated it.

He didn’t hate his father; he wasn’t sure he ever could. Jos was right when he says he’d given everything to Max. His father stopped his own life just so Max could do it better than Jos did back when he was racing, putting all of his time and attention on Max. All Max wanted was some freedom, but that was something he would probably never get.

The burning in the pit of his stomach didn’t stop even after Max went to sleep later that evening.

The following day, Pierre sought him out before the race. He was smiling as he approached Max and Max realized then that Pierre was in the constant state of joy, so he smiled back, even if only to appear polite. Jos was standing a few meters away, talking to someone else and Max was grateful.

“Hey,” Pierre greeted him. Max greeted him back and Pierre continued, “So, after the race today we’ll be down in the park, playing football or something. You wanna come with?”

Max took a long look at his father, still deep in conversation. He knew he wasn’t allowed to, but there was a hopeful look on Pierre’s face so Max found himself agreeing. Asking Pierre who else was coming, Max wiped his sweaty palms on his pants.

As Pierre listed of names (“It’s gonna be me, Este – you know Este? – Anthoine, Charles, Antonio, maybe Alex, if he’s up for it...”) Max couldn’t help but think about what his father was going to do if he found out Max had snuck out. The names of people flew over Max’s head, his eyes focused on his father’s back turned to him.

Pierre must’ve noticed something was bothering Max because he stopped talking. Max snapped out of his thoughts as Pierre said his goodbye, leaving to prepare for the race. He was watching Pierre as he was walking away until Jos called his name, letting him know it was time for the race. Max swallowed a gulp, getting into his gear and letting every worry he had fly out of the window as he went racing.

They were waiting for one of the others. Pierre was chatting with Alex, who looked confused at the rampage of words Pierre had spoken to him with his heavy French accent. Esteban came to stand next to Max. “Are you any good at football?” Max nodded, crossing his arms over his chest.

Esteban grinned, clapping his hands together excitedly. _These French guys are always so cheerful,_ Max thought, looking at Esteban amusedly. His attention got caught by the longer-haired boy who had doing keepy-ups with a slightly taller boy wearing glasses trying his best to distract him. Esteban followed Max’s gaze.

“Charles!” he yelled, catching the attention of the boy – _Charles,_ Max thought – who lost control of the ball and cussed at Esteban in French. Charles walked up to them, throwing the football at Esteban who caught it effortlessly, laughing at the glare Charles shot at him.

Max stood there awkwardly, hands tucked in the pocket of his jacket, as he watched the three of them conversing in their mother language. He understood something – about every fifth word – but felt out of place until Pierre came sauntering over to them and put an arm around Max’s shoulders.

“Antonio’s arrived, we can go to the field,” Pierre stated, following after the group. Charles came to stand by his side and smiled at Max. Pierre put his other arm around the shorter boy and pulled him towards himself, accidentally pulling Max along, too.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” Charles said to Max once Pierre got dragged away by Esteban, leaving the younger boys behind. “I’m Charles.”

“Max,” Max replied, clenching his fist in the pocket of his jacket. Charles nodded. As he was walking away, Max realized they’ve fallen behind and hurried his step to catch up with the rest of the group, earning an amused look from Charles.

Max did his best not to blush, digging his nails into his palm a little harder. He stood by the side of the football pitch as they got separated into teams, anxious until Pierre called out his name, waving him closer.

They played a few matches, equal in strength and Max scored a few goals. Gazing at Charles every-so-often, he noticed the Monègasque shooting weary looks at Pierre. It wasn’t until Pierre tackled Charles that Max realized why; Charles had been expecting it, judging from the laughter and a string of French curses (Max didn’t need to be fluent to understand those) that followed.

Despite himself, Max couldn’t help but laugh at the two as they rolled around in the grass, Charles trying to strangle Pierre. The match got stopped, the others hollering around the two and laughing until Esteban began whining about wanting to play.

Charles was the first to stand up, his shorts green from the grass, and offered a hand for Pierre. The Frenchman took it, standing up and ruffling Charles’s hair, earning a kick in the ribs. Max could see the years-long friendship clearly and turned away, mentally cursing his father for taking that part of his life away from him.

They continued playing and, for the first time in forever, Max felt free. His father got pushed to the back of his mind, something he knew would be a mistake later on. But he didn’t really care; he was having fun and his father could go and screw himself. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

It was ten in the evening when he came back to the hotel. Trying to be as discreet as possible, Max unlocked the door with his key and froze; his father was sitting on the bed, face emotionless though Max could see his fists clenching and unclenching.

Swallowing a gulp, Max closed the door behind himself. Jos was still looking at Max with that same expression, red in the face and Max tried not to flinch outwardly. He didn’t want to speak, though he knew he should; no matter what he did, it was going to end up with his father getting even angrier.

In the end, it was Jos who spoke up first. _“Where were you, Max?” _he questioned, and Max had to wipe his sweaty palms on his shorts, avoiding his father’s gaze.

_“Out,”_ he replied quietly, biting his lips. Jos hummed in reply, the action so sinister accompanied by the burning on his face. _“I was playing football,”_ Max added, hoping to lessen the rage, but achieving the opposite.

_“Football. With whom?”_ Jos’s words were calm, but his voice wavered towards the end. Max could see an explosion brewing, the aftermath inevitable.

Max’s voice cracked as he answered the question, _“Some guys from karting.” _He was trying to be vague but had a feeling that wouldn’t end well. Jos was a ticking bomb and the timer was almost at the end, so nothing he did or said would make a difference.

He didn’t even flinch when Jos started yelling, _“Some guys from karting! I give you everything in life and this is how you repay me? By sneaking out? I thought I raised you better! I should’ve taken you from your mother as soon as I had the chance, she’s made you too soft! Were you with those French kids?!” _

Max tried his best to keep his tears in as he nodded. His nails were digging into his palms so hard he was close to bleeding, heart hammering in his chest so loudly he was sure his father could hear. Despite trying his best not to let it slip, a single tear slid down his face.

A palm met his cheek, the sound of the slap echoing through the now quiet room. Max’s hand instinctively flew to the burning area as he looked at his father in shock. Jos’s face was back to being stone cold as he said, _“Stop fucking crying. You’re not a little girl.”_

There was a beat of silence before he continued, _“They’re your rivals, Max, not your friends. If you ever sneak out again, your karting career is done. Do you hear me?”_ Max could only nod in response. Jos seemed satisfied with himself as he went to sleep while Max stood there for ten more minutes, whole body shaking.

After the next race, he declined the invite to play football, his father’s words playing in his head on a loop as he vowed never to go out with them again.

* * *

**two thousand and twelve**

Max was burning with rage after the race. How did Charles dare run him off the track and then say it was just a racing incident? He was trying his best to stop himself from cussing as he got asked about it, giving curt and short answers before leaving to get changed.

Once he got changed, he went to the toilets, anger still prominent on his features. Only when he was alone in the cubicle did he let his feelings show, shouting a string of swear words followed by his fist meeting the concrete wall. Max clutched his fist, cursing himself for ever thinking that was a good idea.

Before he realized it, he was sliding down the door of the cubicle as sobs wrecked his body. His knuckles were bleeding from getting scratched on the concrete and Max wiped them on his black joggers, pressing his hands against his eyes afterwards to try and stop the tears.

“Great job, Max,” he told himself sarcastically, followed by a deep breath. He leant back against the cold metal of the door and looked at the ceiling, the harsh, white light causing him to squint as it started flickering.

He stood up after a while, nothing but disappointment running through his veins. _I need a run, _he thought, closing his eyes. He got out of the cubicle, washing his hands in the sink and splashing some water on his face. After wiping the water away with a paper towel, he went to find his father.

Jos was talking to Max’s manager, a frown etched onto his face and Max resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _He has nothing to be angry about; I do._ When Jos noticed him, he said nothing except for putting a hand on Max’s shoulder.

_“I’m going for a run,”_ Max informed him, receiving a nod in return. Knowing he had to be back by seven, Max got himself free of his father’s grip and, with one last nod in their direction, put his earbuds in and let himself get lost in the beats as he made his way down towards the nearest park.

As he jogged down the streets of Sarno, Max felt his residue anger slowly dissipating. The wave of disappointment that engulfed him thirty minutes prior was still there, hidden in the back of his mind and just waiting to come out when he least expected it.

He made a few rounds around the park before sitting down on a bench at the edge of the area overlooking the playground. It was only then that he felt his hand burn, and hissed, touching it with his other hand. “Fuck,” he muttered, slumping in his seat and gripping his head.

The music was droning in his ears, the slow, melancholic rhythm fitting his current mood. He moved his gaze upwards, catching the pitying eyes of a middle-aged woman across the park. Trying his best not to scowl at the look, he looked at the playground where a group of kids were playing some sort of play pretend.

Unable to move his eyes from the sight, he thought about how his father never allowed him such things, usually a part of every child’s life. _‘It’s meaningless and girly, for your sister,’ _Jos would say, pushing Max to cars and racing. Sometimes he wondered how he ever began to love the sport, with that sort of pushing in its direction.

A single tear slid down his cheek and he wiped it away hastily, wincing at the burn of the cuts on his knuckles. Letting out a soft sigh, Max tried to stop thinking about his father. At fifteen, he was capable enough of seeing the flaws in his father, though he knew he only wanted what’s best for him. Jos was trying to correct his own faults through Max, bring his son to greatness one day.

He got broken out of his thoughts by somebody sitting next to him. From his peripheral vision, he could see that it was a girl, probably his own age or a few years younger, so he didn’t pay her much mind. She took out a camera and began fiddling with it, catching Max’s attention fully.

Taking his earbuds out of his ears, Max turned towards her. She was already looking at him, a pair of soft-brown eyes catching his own, followed by a kind – and slightly awkward – smile. _“Buongiorno,”_ she greeted him finally. Before he could say anything, she was continuing, _“Posso fotografarti?”_

Looking at her in confusion, Max didn’t say anything; his Italian was limited to greeting people and the names of various food, something he wished would change through the years.

She must’ve noticed his bemusement because she tried again in English, “Can I photograph you?” Rolling her eyes at his lack of answers, she put up her camera, pointing it at him, “Photo. You.”

“I understand English,” Max retorted, earning another eye-roll. “Why do you want to photograph me?” he asked.

“You look like a scene of a sad movie. Photos like that are the hit on Tumblr right now, especially if they’re of boys,” she shrugged. Max resisted the urge to face-palm, shaking his head instead. “Oh, come on,” she begged, big eyes widening even more.

“I don’t even know you!” Max exclaimed, ready to drop the conversation then and there.

The girl smiled at him cheekily, a big and genuine grin on her face as she put out her hand, “I’m Pina. Nice to meet you.”

He stared at her hand for a while before thinking _Fuck it_ and shaking it, replying, “Max.”

Pina widened her eyes at the state of his fist. A frown etched onto her face as she examined the bruises on his knuckles, _“Che cazzo hai fatto? _Did you have a fight with a wall or something? This has got to hurt like hell.”

Max shrugged, “It doesn’t hurt if I don’t think about it.” She clicked her tongue in response, letting go of his hand. Rummaging through the bag she was carrying, Max was surprised to see her take out bandages and antiseptic.

At his look of confusion, she laughed. “I’m pretty clumsy so I just carry it with me,” she explained, taking his hand in hers before spraying it with the antiseptic. Max hissed at the feeling, retracting his arm and causing Pina to roll her eyes, again, “Don’t be a baby.”

After she wrapped his fist, she tapped his shoulder comfortingly. “Thanks,” he mumbled; Pina waved him off, putting her things away. They fell into a sort of comfortable silence, with Pina playing with her camera and Max observing her.

He couldn’t deny she was cute, with her sun-kissed skin and freckles spread across her cheeks. She scratched at her face absentmindedly, accidentally breaking off the scab of a previously scratched-off pimple, and let out a sigh, took a tissue out of her bag and placed it against her cheek. Max’s own hand instinctively flew to his own face before he let it fall down.

His eyes fell to the camera again, noticing how she was going through the pictures and deleting some every-so-often. “Is photography your thing?” The question was out of his mouth before he could properly think about it.

“What?” Pina asked, getting broken out of her reverie. He repeated his question, causing her to hum in thinking. “I like it, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s what I enjoy doing,” she responded after a moment.

“Can I see some?” She nodded in response, shuffling closer to him until their shoulders touched, and opened the gallery of her camera. There were various images of people, landscape and animals, taken in a way it seemed too professional for a teenager. “You’re good at it,” he commented, taking the device from her and zooming in.

“Thanks,” she replied, a coat of blush staining her cheeks. “I usually edit them more at home, these are the originals.”

“They really are good,” Max said, giving her back the camera before adding, “If you still want to, you can take some of me.”

“But you don’t look like the definition of melancholy anymore,” her voice was teasing, and Max couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He shoved her slightly, causing her to let out a yelp before shoving him back. Meeting each other’s eyes, they burst into laughter, and, before Max realized it, Pina’s pointing the camera at his face.

He let her take more photos, chatting about nothing all the while; Max was having more fun than he thought he would, the thoughts of Charles Leclerc, his father and karting long forgotten.

Checking the time, Max let out a curse. Pina looked at him quizzically, and he explained, “I’ve got to go back now, but it was nice talking to you. Do you think you could send me the photos somehow?”

“Yeah, sure. I could e-mail them to you,” Pina responded, shrugging her shoulders. “What’s your e-mail?”

Max scratched his chin, a sheepish smile forming on his face, “I’m not sure. Can I have your number so I can send it to you after I check?” She nodded, citing the digits as Max typed them into his phone, sending her a message immediately so he didn’t forget to do so later.

“Great. I’ll talk to you later,” she said, offering Max a high-five. They parted ways after that, Max walking back down the street he ran on an hour prior. This time, he didn’t have earbuds in, and his pace was significantly slower than before, no rage clouding his mind.

His father was out when he returned to the hotel. Max laid on his bed, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. Taking it out, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the message from Pina, the words _I only now realized how smooth you are ;-) _not surprising him in the slightest.

They ended up talking for hours after that. For the first time in a while Max felt genuinely relaxed, laying on the bed with his phone over him as he typed messages to Pina. It was a well-needed relief after a disappointing weekend, something to take his mind off of the weight that’s piled upon his shoulders.

Jos didn’t even blink when he entered the room, saying a few words to Max before going to bed. Max rolled to his side and continued texting the Italian for a few more hours, until he’d fallen asleep with his phone in his hands.

They began dating a few weeks after, like fifteen-year-olds do. Most of their conversations were limited to texts and hour-long phone calls about nothing and everything; Max truly enjoyed talking to her, the feeling of relief of having someone to vent to easing him up. The race in Sarno was completely forgotten and the Dutchie was ready to take on the next race.

His father found out about Pina. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it, as long as she didn’t affect Max’s racing – and that was something Max himself would never allow. Jos had even let Max go to Italy and had given his son money so he could take the girl out on a date, after they’ve been dating for about a month.

_“You always ask a girl out, Max. They’re waiting for that,” _he said. Max had to swallow some comments about his father and dating that threatened to leave his mouth, only nodding at Jos.

Pina accepted his invite to the cinema. They agreed on _The Avengers,_ a movie they were both interested in, and Max was feeling properly excited for it. During the screening, Max’s attention was mostly on the action, his girlfriend’s hand clutched in his and her head on his shoulder.

After the movie ended, Max and Pina found themselves sitting on a bench in a park, holding hands and talking. She was smiling the whole time, even pressing kisses on his cheek and leaving them hot-red under her lips. He was drawing circles on the back of her hand and listened to her talk about what happened to her in school earlier that day.

Before they parted, Max pressed a feathery kiss to her lips. Both of them blushed scarlet, Pina kissing him again, only slightly harder. They parted ways, Max coming back to the hotel to find a text from Pina saying how she had a lovely time and couldn’t wait to see him again.

He didn’t respond, just let the device fall onto the bed and closed his eyes. Instead of falling asleep to the feeling of giddiness from a first proper date followed by a first proper kiss, Max fell asleep to the thoughts about how he didn’t feel anything when their lips met.

There was a nagging feeling in his chest for a while. A rampage of thoughts scrambling around his brain, causing him to get worried about things not worth worrying about; he’d find himself staring at random points with a hurricane in his head far more often than before, or he’d snap at people easier than he used to.

It had taken a toll on his driving. His performance began faltering, he was driving more recklessly while trying to clear his mind with one thing he loved doing the most; the comments he heard didn’t faze him at all when the real judges were in his own head.

_Why am I just wasting a part of my life if it’s not meant to be?_

He didn’t know if it wasn’t meant to be, though; he did genuinely like Pina, for all her sarcastic comments and joke-fuelled encouragement. She was sweet, funny, and Max did enjoy spending time with her, thinking of her as a breath of fresh air from the world he lived in.

But was it worth losing his own sanity over?

Even his father began noticing something was up with Max. It was a race in which Max did some sort of silly, stupid mistake that was the turning point for them. The younger Dutchman was seething, angry at the whole world, when Jos came in, equally as angry and ten times scarier.

_“What the fuck was that?!”_ he yelled out at Max, who began clenching his fists at his sides. There was already enough anger inside of him; there needn’t be more.

_“I don’t know!”_ Max shouted back, throwing his hands up in exasperation. The tone of Max’s voice seemed to enrage Jos even further, making him grab Max by the shoulder and grip him tight enough to cause him to wince. _“Let go of me!”_

_“That was an amateur move, Max. I thought I taught you better than that,” _Jos ignored Max’s command, tightening his grip. Max tried to shake him off but gave up after a while, slumping in place while glaring at his father.

_“You didn’t teach me shit,”_ Max snapped back, _“I want to go back to mum and Vic. I don’t want to be here with you anymore.”_

_“Tough luck. Your mother can’t do you any good, nor can your sister. Your best way of getting somewhere in life is with me, boy, don’t forget that.”_

Max managed to break free of Jos’s grip, looking his father straight into the eyes, _“I don’t want to see you ever again.”_

Jos just scoffed, rolled his eyes and let Max go. It’s not like he had anywhere to go, anyway. Everything Max had, he had with his father and he was painfully aware of that.

He didn’t see Pina for months after that. It was probably for the better, since there was a calamity going on inside of his head and he didn’t want her to worry. They continued messaging at a daily basis, but even Max noticed there was something missing.

Their conversations were more friendly than anything. He’d talk about racing or some new videogame, she’d talk about random, new bands she discovered or send him links to her Tumblr, but that was all there was to it. When she began distancing herself from him, he noticed, taking it with hidden relief in his chest.

He wasn’t surprised when she called him one day, saying they needed to talk. A big part of him was expecting it.

_“I think it would be best if we broke up,”_ she said over the phone. Max let out a sigh of relief he’d been holding, earning a chuckle from the other line, _“You noticed it, too?”_

“Yeah,” he mumbled out, picking at his nails. Pina hummed on the other side of the line. “I’m sorry I wasn’t the best first boyfriend,” he added, but she quickly began protesting, leaving him confused.

_“No, it’s not you. I mean, it is you, in a way, but not the way you think,”_ she stopped before continuing, _“I realized I like girls rather than boys. You’re great, I’m sure you’ll find a lovely person one day, but I figured out guys are just not for me.”_

“Oh,” Max replied sheepishly. He wasn’t sure what to think about what she’d just told him. “Good luck, then,” he said after a moment.

_“We can still be friends! You’re great fun,”_ she sounded hopeful, and Max couldn’t really deny her.

He said, “Yeah, of course. Send me photos, I love looking at your Tumblr.”

They ended the call after a while, but Max continued staring at his wall for an hour longer, thinking about what she had just told him. A thought began swirling in his head, questioning his own sexuality. He wasn’t sure what to think, he’d never thought of the possibility before, but it would make sense as to why he felt like crying after kissing Pina.

Max groaned, falling onto the bed. _I don’t know what I am but I don’t care,_ he thought with finality, running a hand over his face. He wished there was someone other than his father he could confide in; he knew if he came to Jos with a half-thought, Jos would just dismiss him for wasting his time.

A few days later, Max ended up going out with a boy. It was a guy his own age – openly gay, which was something Max admired a lot – who talked a lot about random things, had similar interest to Max and was just an overall great person. Max could genuinely say he had fun on the date.

The guy – Nicholas – took Max back to his hotel, held his hand the whole way and left a kiss on his cheek as they parted ways that had Max blushing like mad, the place where Nicholas’s lips touched him tingling. He came back to the room feeling great, a light spring in his step and whistling a tune that had him look like a film character.

His good mood was gone as soon as he’d seen the look on his father’s face, burning red with rage. Max openly winced, a sense of déjà vu hitting him straight in the face. He didn’t dare utter a word, not even when Jos came at him with his palm raised. The slap echoed through the room and Max bit his lip to stop himself from saying something that might get him hit again.

_“What the fuck was that?”_ Jos grit out through his teeth, gripping Max’s hair with his hand tightly. _“I’m just standing here and look out through the window only to see my son holding hands with another guy. So, tell me, Max: what the fuck was that what I saw?”_

When Max didn’t answer, Jos slapped him again. _“Answer me!”_ he roared, pushing Max until he fell to the floor.

_“I think I’m gay,”_ Max finally whispered, gripping the carpet with his hands. There was a beat of silence before Jos grabbed him by the nape of his shirt and pulled him to his feet, slamming him against the wall. His hand held Max’s jaw so he could look nowhere but at him.

_“Now listen here and listen closely. My son is not a faggot. It’s just the new mainstream hip that’s messing with your head, Max. You’re not gay and if you ever again say you are, I’m going to kill you, you ungrateful child.”_ The only thing Max could do was nod.

After his father finally released him, Max went to the bathroom and locked himself in there. He stood in front of the sink, looking at his face as silent tears began streaming down his cheeks. Splashing cold water over himself, Max couldn’t help but feel empty.

He slid down to the floor, pulled his knees up to his chin and stayed like that for hours. His father didn’t come to check on him, not that he was expecting him to. The words _you’re not gay_ continued swimming through his mind, the feeling of his father’s palm meeting his cheek still as evident as ever.

Jos was wrong, though.

Max was very much gay.

* * *

**two thousand and fourteen**

Esteban was a persistent person.

That was something Max realized after spending time around the Frenchman since their childhoods. He was very persistent and _annoying_ and if he wanted something, there was no way he wasn’t going to get it. It annoyed the hell out of Max, especially when Esteban was trying to get _him_ to join them in their FIFA session.

Max could go. There was nothing stopping him from going, Jos having decided to let his son breathe after their spat two years ago (he even let Max room by himself these days). The only problem was that Max didn’t really want to go, the words his father said to him loudly ringing through his head.

_“They’re not your friends, Max. I’m going to kill you.”_

The words have been playing on a loop ever since that day. Max found himself distancing from everyone, especially since Pierre had gone to Formula Renault. He must’ve told something to Esteban, though, because Max had a lanky, French shadow tailing after him every race weekend and asking him if he was up for a few matches.

He decided to agree just to get Esteban off his back (totally not because he was feeling lonely and wanted to play the game). It was worth it, because Esteban looked as if Max gifted him eternal happiness for Christmas.

It’s how he found himself in Esteban’s room with a bunch of other drivers and their friends, sitting on the couch next to a guy named Noah who kept sneaking glances at Max. He wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t find him hot, because he was.

Noah smiled at Max and Max felt his stomach churning with something unexplainable. He wasn’t sure whether the feeling was good or not.

He kicked their arses at the game. It was no surprise that he was winning the majority of the matches with how much time he spent playing it at home. Currently, he was watching Esteban play one of his friends with Noah by his side, commenting the match and throwing remarks at the two playing.

Charles came to his side, sitting down next to Max and nudging him lightly as he asked, “Do you want something to drink? They’ve got basically everything.” Charles began listing off various drinks, going from plain water to sodas and alcohol.

(How they managed to get that, Max didn’t know; teenage guys had a weird way of getting alcohol, Max learnt throughout the years.)

Before Max could reply, Noah cut in, “I can bring you guys what you want. I was planning on getting something for myself, too.”

Charles threw him a weary look, obviously not knowing him well; Max didn’t notice, nodding gratefully at the older boy, “That’d be great, thanks.” Charles eventually nodded, telling Noah to bring him a can of something while Max just said whatever he’s having, too.

Noah returned after a few minutes with Charles’s juice and a glass of something for Max, equal to Noah’s own. “What’s this?” Max asked, taking a sip of the drink and coughing at the strong taste.

“Red Bull vodka,” Noah replied, sitting down next to the two younger boys. He nudged Max’s side playfully, “Ever gotten drunk?”

“No,” Max shook his head.

Noah chuckled, taking a sip of his own drink. “How old are you guys even?” he questioned, snorting when Max answered the question. “16, huh? That’s perfect for getting drunk for the first time.”

Max heard Charles scoff from beside him, an unimpressed look on his features. He mumbled some sort of excuse, leaving the two and joining Esteban who finished the match and was sulking because he lost, ignorant to the confused look Max shot his way.

Turning his attention back to Noah, Max shrugged. “I don’t know if I should…” he trailed off, thinking about his father somewhere near in the hotel. If he’d heard about Max getting drunk, there’d be hell to pay and Max would most likely never see daylight again.

In the end, his curiosity got the best of him and he let Noah give him drink after drink; the amused glint in the older boy’s eyes was fuelling Max further, tucked away in the corner of the room and sitting criss-crossed on the floor with Noah playfully nudging him as they talked about random things. Max was barely able to stand, world spinning around him from the low tolerance of alcohol, and he found himself feeling giggly, tiny laughs escaping him at every word that left Noah’s mouth.

After a while, he began feeling sick and let it known to the older boy. If he’d been sober, he could’ve seen the look in Noah’s eyes change as he asked, “Do you want to go back to your room?”

Instead of questioning the sudden interest, Max nodded. “That – that would be nice, please,” he replied, voice slurred and followed by a loud groan. Noah stood up, helping Max before wrapping one of his arms around the younger boy’s torso and leading him out of the room.

On their way out, they were stopped by Esteban, who had a worried look on his face. “Is he okay?” he asked, looking at Max.

Noah let out a sigh. “Just had too much to drink. I must’ve gone a bit too far,” his voice was sheepish as he replied. “I’m taking him back to his room,” he added. Esteban nodded, patting Max’s head and keeping his gaze on the two of them as they left.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Noah began pulling Max towards his room roughly; Max let out an annoyed sound, huffing and puffing at getting dragged around like a ragdoll. He voiced his annoyance, but Noah just rolled his eyes, saying, “Shut up,” with no friendliness in his voice whatsoever.

He took the keys from the pocket of Max’s jeans and unlocked the door, pushing the younger boy inside and letting him fall to the ground in a drunken mess. Max didn’t have the ability to form a coherent sentence, writhing on the ground as he tried to stand back up.

Noah chuckled humourlessly, “Aren’t you adorable?” He crouched down beside Max, running his hand through Max’s hair lightly, having him nuzzle up against his palm before getting a cold shower as Noah’s other hand met his cheek. Before he could realize what was going on, he was getting pulled on his feet and pushed against the wall, two firm hands keeping him in place.

“What are you doing?” Max managed to ask, words barely understandable from the mixture of intoxication and fear coursing through his veins. In front of his eyes, he could see his father’s face staring at him disappointedly as Noah held his chin in place.

“Don’t worry, baby, you’ll like it,” Noah whispered as he pressed a kiss to Max’s jaw, peppering the area and keeping Max’s struggling body in place. The younger boy didn’t have the strength to fight, to push Noah away as his hand travelled down Max’s body and beneath his sweatpants. His breathing hitched at the feeling of fingers wrapping around his dick, his knees trashing around involuntarily. “You like that, don’t you?”

Max was shaking his head, trying to get the older boy to stop, to throw him away in some way. Noah just hummed in response to Max’s struggles, ignoring the tears streaming down Max’s cheeks. He regretted drinking in his cloudy haze, now having no will in him to knee Noah in his crotch.

He’d never been more relieved to hear a knock on the door. Noah let out an annoyed grunt, letting go of Max, ruffling his hair as he said, “Don’t you worry, I’ll be back,” before going to the door. Max fell to the ground, body shaking with sobs as he circled his arms around his upper body.

There were voices talking, that much he could understand from his position on the floor. There was a shout and then the shutting of the door before a hand was placed on his shoulder and he flinched, scrambling away. All sounds were muffled, he couldn’t hear the person talking to him at all; the only thing he could do was repeat, “Don’t, please, don’t,” over and over again.

The person stood up, footsteps retreating before they were there again. Max tried to scream as he was getting placed into a sitting position, a bottle of cold water placed in his hands with the cap unscrewed; he gulped it slowly, letting the person guide him, body still wrecking with sobs. “Just drink, Max, it’ll help you with the sickness,” the person spoke softly.

He could barely register Charles’s face as the Monègasque tried to calm him down. Crouching down next to Max, his eyebrows were twisted in worry at the state the Dutchman was left in. After Max downed the whole bottle, Charles stood up again and took Max’s hands in his, helping him up to his feet and taking him to the bed.

Before he could realize what was happening, Max had begun trashing again, trying to get as far away from him as possible. “Please, don’t, I don’t want to,” the Dutchman cried repeatedly, like a broken record.

If he’d been more sober, he would’ve seen the look of realisation that crossed Charles’s face, followed by nothing but hot, white anger.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Maxy. I just want to put you to sleep, okay?” he began talking as if he was speaking to a child, knowing that was the best way to get Max to cooperate with him. Max was shaking his head, begging him to stop.

He’d managed to get Max to calm down, a mixture of words and the lack of touching convincing the Dutchman he wasn’t going to get violated. Charles was now the one shaking with, though with anger, as he asked Max if he wanted to take a shower before getting to bed. The only response he got was a tiny, confirmative headshake and so he helped Max to his feet and took him to the bathroom.

“Since you’re pretty drunk, I’m going to stay here.” When Max began protesting, Charles raised his hands defensively, “I’m going to just stand here, my back turned towards you in case you fall, okay? I don’t want you to drown in the shower.”

Max nodded, albeit reluctantly, and Charles let out a sigh, letting Max get in the shower before going to the room and getting fresh clothes for Max. He wasn’t sure what Max usually slept in, but he had a feeling a pair of sweatpants and a wide t-shirt would suffice, so he left them next to the shower when he came back, narrating everything he did not to alarm Max.

Once Max was finally showered and dressed, he brought him to his bed and tucked him in. Sitting on the edge, he began rambling to Max about the most random things, taking his mind off of what had happened to him. Max didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Charles’s voice.

It managed to get him to sleep, and when he woke up the next morning his head was a throbbing mess. Unsure of what had happened the night before, he stared up at the ceiling, trying to get the ache in his head to calm down. Slowly, memories began surfacing and he felt himself shaking, hands clenching the covers tightly.

Tears streamed down his face, shame burning in his head. He wasn’t sure how was he ever going to look Charles in the eyes again, after what had happened the previous night. Gasping for air, he tried to get himself to calm down, his headache worsening with every sob that left his lips.

It was only later that he noticed the bottle of painkillers and the bottled water next to his bed. As he picked up the bottle, a tiny note fell down and he frowned, picking it up with his trembling hands. Through the pain throbbing in his head, he could barely make out the words on the yellow slip of paper.

_If you ever want to talk – Charles_

There was a phone number written beneath it, menacingly staring at Max. Figuring he might as well not be a complete asshole, he typed the number into his phone and saved it under Charles’s name, letting his fingers linger on the words a long while after.

When he finally managed to drag himself out of bed to go down for breakfast (and apologise to Charles for any inconvenience – and there were a lot), Max was feeling slightly better from the medicine. The ache in his head lessened and his urge to scratch off his skin ceased, though he figured the real feeling of self-hatred would come once the feeling of his first hangover passed.

Getting down to the restaurant of the hotel, Max passed by Noah. He would’ve avoided his gaze usually, tried to find a way to slip by unnoticed, but there was something stopping him. Around Noah’s eye was a bruise, swollen and red and obviously new, adorning the skin in a way it made Max lose all his appetite. Looking closer, he noticed that the older man’s nose was also turning in an odd way.

There was an unusual feeling of weight in his stomach caused by the sight that didn’t stop until he found Charles, sitting at a table in the corner by himself, eating a bowl of cereal; the feeling dispersed, however, when he sat down in front of Charles and noticed the red bruises lining his knuckles.

* * *

**two thousand and eighteen**

When Max met Dilara, they immediately clicked. It was during a period when Max felt way too exhausted to do anything, spending all of his free time in a small coffee shop in London near his flat there, scrolling away on his phone while ignoring everyone and everything.

The coffee shop was near the university Dilara went to, and one day, she came stumbling in with her laptop under one hand and a panicked expression on her face; Max watched her, intrigued, as she ordered her coffee before eyeing the stuffed place in search of any non-vacant place. In the end, she slumped down in front of Max with an apology.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got this essay to finish and you look like the least threatening human in this place.” It was true – he did. Everywhere around him were university students, all in equal panic to the brunette in front of him. He let her sit there, still scrolling through his phone and paying her no mind.

They began talking a few minutes later, and Max found himself enjoying her company. He listened to her ramble about various points of her essay, and she listened to him rant about Formula 1 and how there was way too much pressure on his shoulders, coming from all sides. Exhaustion seemed to be his permanent state, but Dilara didn’t pity him, only offered advice on how to stop caring about the opinion of people.

In the end, they were chatting and laughing like lifelong friends. As Max noticed the time, he let out a sigh before saying, “I should go, I’ve got a meeting to attend. Could I perhaps get your number?”

Dilara cringed outwardly. “I’m sorry, Max, but I’m a lesbian,” she said, causing Max to scrunch up his nose confusedly.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he responded defensively. “I’m not interested in girls; I just think you’re cool and would like to talk to you more.” She let out a sigh of relief, shrugging slightly afterwards. They did exchange numbers before Max left.

That was the start of a peculiar friendship that Max cherished, as he didn’t have to worry about anything with Dilara. Standing by his side and offering advice, she quickly became his best friend; he could talk to her about his sexuality problems without an issue, the fear of dating prominent after the chaos he’d been put through in his life.

She understood him. Dilara was going through the same thing, though in a lesser sense, and talking to him helped her, too; with how similar they were, it was no surprise that they got along so well, knowing exactly how the other one felt.

Max’s father seemed to like Dilara, too (not knowing her sexuality, of course). He continued pestering Max about dating her, not listening to his son’s repeated answer of, “We’re just friends.” His father was still set on the fact that Max was, in fact, not gay; Max didn’t bother correcting him anymore, after causing way too many arguments to count.

After people began speculating his sexuality online, started by someone who _has seen Max out on a date with a guy _(thankfully, there were no photos), Max got three phone calls: one from his father, one from his manager, and one from Christian. They all told him the same thing, though in vaguely different tones – _you should find yourself a girlfriend so that the unwanted questions stop. _

He ended up venting to Dilara one evening over the phone, only to have her remain silent for a while. “Are you alright?” Max questioned, worry seeping into his voice.

She hummed in response, _“Yeah, I’m fine…” _Max didn’t believe her, but he let it slide. They continued talking, Max rolled onto his stomach with a grin on his face as she moaned about university; despite having mixed feelings about racing most of the time, he was glad that his career was set, and he didn’t have to worry about essays and lectures.

Dilara fell silent again. _“Hey, Max?”_ she asked.

“Yeah?” he replied, frowning at the sound of her voice; he couldn’t place what she was feeling, emotion masked in her voice.

_“I’ve got something I need to ask you…”_ she trailed off, letting out a sigh before continuing, _“You know how I’ve got a cousin’s wedding next month? My parents have been pestering me about bringing a date, so would you like to? Come with me, I mean? It might help your cause, too, if you post a story or something.”_

Max, surprised by the offer, narrowed his eyes in thinking. It was a good idea, and it would possibly help him out and get everyone off his back. “That’s actually a good idea,” he responded, “Just text me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

_“Thanks, Max. I owe you one.”_

The wedding had come and gone, the press – and everybody else – eating the story of Max and Dilara. She kept her Instagram profile private, as per Max’s advice, and eventually things settled. There were no more speculations about Max circling around, Dilara could keep her family off her back, and their next ‘date night’ was actually a movie marathon in Max’s flat.

Deciding to keep the façade up, as it would make life easier for both of them, they didn’t confirm nor deny any gossip of dating. Max posted a photo with her from the wedding, captioned with a heart emoji, and that was that.

Eventually, they came to the agreement of fake dating for the public – and their friends and family – until they’d ‘break up’ because of ‘personal reasons’. They had fun when they were together, which wasn’t often because of their busy schedules, but it was enough for people not to doubt if they were together or not.

Max found a friend in Dilara. At twenty years of age, just barely out of his teens, he always had something to complain about and having Dilara meant he had someone to complain to; the pressure he’d been put under, the inability to be who he really was because of judgement of others and his fear of commitment were the most common things between them.

There was nothing but platonic love between them, caused by a similar situation and unparalleled levels of understanding.

As long as they kept the photos coming, no one had to know.

  
When Max found out that Charles got signed by Sauber, he wasn’t sure how to feel. The Monègasque driver and he were semi-friends, liking each other’s posts on Instagram and sending a few messages every other week, or so. Whenever he talked to Charles, though, Max couldn’t see anything but the distant look which adorned his face _that_ morning.

They didn’t talk about what happened that day. Max apologised for causing an inconvenience to Charles, and that was the end of the conversation. He didn’t like to think about what would’ve happened if Charles hadn’t bothered to come check up on him.

It was why Max was surprised to see a message on WhatsApp from the Monègasque on the first day of Winter Testing. Charles asked if he’d want to go out for drinks with him and Pierre, for old times’ sake, and Max accepted the invite, albeit a bit reluctantly. He knew how close Pierre and Charles were, and was worried he’d be a third wheel to the pair of friends.

They weren’t that close; hell, Max would hardly call them his friends, with how much they talked in the past few years. Since he got to Formula 1, and they were left in the lower divisions, Max saw them close to never; it was a shame, since the both of them were really nice and Max could do with some nice people in his life.

In the end, it was Dilara who pushed him into going, after he texted her with nothing but doubt in his head. He could see her rolling her eyes at him, a look of disbelief on her face as she lightly smacked her forehead and told him he’s an idiot.

_Gotta love your best friends, and all that._

_They keep pushing you to meet other people so that they’re not the only ones you send memes to at three in the morning because of your insomniac tendencies._

“Max!” Pierre said enthusiastically when he saw him, waving him over. Max smiled at him, shuffling into his seat and greeting Charles, who had a friendly look on his face, too. After ordering something to drink, they started talking and Max found himself enjoying the time he spent with the two French speakers.

When they parted ways, Max felt lighter than he had in a long time. Dilara was nice to talk to, and Daniel was a good teammate-and-friend, but he needed other people, too, and talking to Charles and Pierre reminded him of that. Still feeling slightly wary, he decided to try and keep contact with them nonetheless, especially since all of them would be racing against each other in just a few weeks’ time.

Max ended up sticking to his word and spending time with Pierre and Charles through the beginning of the season. It wasn’t that often, nor did they do anything special, but it felt good to get that sense of normality in his life he hadn’t ever had before; there was something calming in playing FIFA with other people, joking around and doing nothing.

Oftentimes, Max found himself looking at Charles. Pierre he’d known for a while longer and spent more time talking to through the years, but Charles was new to him friendship-wise. The Red Bull driver would end up observing Charles when they were together, causing Pierre to more than often wiggle his eyebrows suggestively when Charles looked away.

With a roll of his eyes, Max would dismiss Pierre’s teasing; he wasn’t sure what gave Pierre the idea of _suggestive eye-rolling_ when Max had a girlfriend (albeit, a fake one) and showed literally no form of attraction towards the Monègasque.

Except, when Pierre looked at him like that – as though he knew something Max didn’t – Max couldn’t help but think about _what-ifs,_ various silly ideas he’d never think of otherwise, one of them being the fact that maybe, _perhaps,_ Charles liked him and Pierre was subtly trying to tell that to Max. He dismissed the idea as soon as it came, but the bitter feeling remained on his tongue for a long while after.

They were sitting in Max’s hotel room in Canada, his portable PlayStation on in front of them with FIFA ready to play; per Pierre’s request, it was him and Charles who would be playing one another, Max watching them for once. Usually, it was Max who played Pierre with Charles on the sides with the excuse of not playing the game often and being bad.

A few minutes into the match, Max realised Charles wasn’t lying and was actually dreadful at the game. He voiced his thoughts and earned a kick in the shin, accompanied by a soft, “I told you so.” Max just rolled his eyes, nudging Charles’s side lightly with his foot, and continued watching them.

“Through pass to the left, you’ve got a free player there,” he began advising Charles after he began losing and started getting frustrated. Listening to Max’s suggestions, he did as he was told and managed to get a shot on goal for the first time since they started playing. “Choose the side you want to shoot and aim, don’t just go for the middle,” Max said, amusement in his voice at the easy way Pierre’s goalkeeper caught the ball.

“Yeah, well, you play,” Charles responded, frustrated, and thrust the controller into Max’s hands. “I’m shit at this anyway,” he added, playing with the string of the black hoodie he was wearing.

Pierre paused the game and ruffled Charles’s hair in a brotherly manner. “I’m sure Max wouldn’t mind teaching you a few tricks,” he teased, the words causing Charles to blush; Max wasn’t sure why exactly, so he crossed it off as Charles being embarrassed.

He nodded, “Yeah, sure.” Giving the controller back to Charles, Max offered to continue advising him; Pierre pressed play again and Max tried to ignore the clenching feeling in his gut. He focused entirely on the game, pushing any thoughts of crushes or anything of the sort to the back of his mind.

Even if Charles did like him – which Max was hoping he didn’t, because that would’ve been another load of emotional baggage for him to unload and he wasn’t ready for that – Max wouldn’t have been up for a relationship, especially since he was ‘dating’ Dilara. The other reason was the fact that, in his mind, relationships were something he didn’t want to get dragged into.

What was surprising was the fact that he didn’t have troubles with physical contact. It has taken him years to get over his traumas, but he managed to and now he didn’t shy away; sometimes, he still woke up to the feeling of hands touching his body, but it was getting better, slowly but surely. The last time a person touched his body, he froze, but the guy he was with was ready to stop as soon as Max said a word, so his initial fear dwindled with each passing minute.

Max got broken out of his thoughts by the sound of his room door getting shut; looking around, he noticed that Pierre had gone, and it was only Charles with him, looking at him worriedly. “You okay?” he asked, and Max nodded in response.

“Yeah,” he added, smiling for good measure. Charles looked as though he didn’t believe him, but said nothing, moving his eyes away from Max. “Where’d Pierre go to?” Max asked, changing the subject.

“Said he has something to do, someone to see, I don’t know.” Max hummed in reply, plopping down onto his bed. “I can go if you want,” he could hear Charles offer.

“You don’t have to; I don’t mind the company.” There was a shift on his bed as Charles sat onto the mattress next to Max, peering down at him amusedly. Max asked, “What?”

Shaking his head, Charles replied, “Nothing.” Max rolled his eyes, though teasingly, and Charles nudged him a little. Moving to the side, Max patted the space next to him and Charles looked at him questioningly.

Rolling his eyes again, Max repeated his action and Charles pursed his lips, still looking reluctant. “I don’t bite,” Max teased, poking Charles’s ribs with his fingers. That seemed to get Charles to lay down next to him, bed obviously big enough to hold both of them and one more person without a problem.

They stayed like that, not talking, both thinking. The silence surrounding them wasn’t uncomfortable; on the contrary, Max felt as though it was relaxing, being able to think but knowing someone was there if his thoughts wandered too far.

He could feel Charles looking at him every now and then, planting ideas in his head again; Max resisted the urge to groan out loud, shove Charles away and beat himself up for thinking those things. Instead of doing those things, he just lightly tapped the mattress with the index finger of his right hand anxiously.

Charles broke the silence first. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m good enough for this,” he said, voice hinting resignation. Max turned on his side, peering at him questioningly.

“For what?”

A sigh, _“This._ Formula 1, the sport, the world. Everything in me is screaming at me constantly, telling me I’m not good enough for this. I’ve done some stupid things in the past few years and I feel like it’s all going to come back at me quick.”

Max wasn’t expecting that, a whole explanation, everything going through Charles’s head. Charles turned to look at him, too, and Max could see him beating himself up on the inside.

Swallowing a gulp, he replied, “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough. I’ve seen you drive – _I’ve driven against you._ You’re good. I don’t know what you think you did, but it’s not going to come back at you. We all do stupid things; I would know.”

Another wave of silence fell upon them. Charles looked deep in thought, and Max resisted the urge to hug him; he looked so small, years younger than he was, eyebrows furrowed and a pout adorning his lips.

“I’ve hurt a lot of people in the past year or two. I refused to accept who I was – who I _am_ – and I’ve been in a dark place, mentally, physically. I fear that I’ve made so many mistakes and they’ll all come back to haunt me at one point, and if they do, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m lucky to be here right now, after what I’ve put other people through.”

“What did you do?” Max’s curiosity got the best of him, and he asked. He was halfway through saying an apology when Charles stopped him.

“I’m not going to say what exactly happened, but I’ll just say that Prema was considering sending me to counselling at one point. I hurt my family, friends – Pierre was so worried. I was being self-destructive, rash, _grieving_ before actually getting to grieve…” Charles trailed off. He let out a sigh before continuing, “It took my father’s death to get me to calm down.”

Max didn’t know what to say; despite his mind screaming at him, he took Charles’s hand in his and rubbed it comfortingly. Charles smiled at him sadly, squeezing his hand and they remained like that, holding hands.

“Do you miss your dad?” Max asked, mentally slapping himself straight after. _Of course he does, you idiot,_ he said to himself.

Charles didn’t seem to take it in a bad way, though, as he responded, “Every day. We ended on a bad foot, something I regret constantly. It was my fault, though. There’s nothing I can do about it now, except hope that he’s proud of me, even in heaven.”

Max stayed silent for a moment. He didn’t know how to reply to Charles, didn’t know what to say exactly; his own father was scum like nothing else, yet Max kept him in his life still, seeking his approval more than anything.

“I hate my dad,” Max said after a while. Charles raised his eyebrow questioningly, and Max took that as a sign to continue talking, “I hate him so much. He’s always been mean, and rude to everyone. He used to hit my mum, call her names, tell her so much stupid shit it took everything in me not to punch him sometimes. When I was younger, I looked up to him, sought his approval, hoped he was proud of me; I even chose to live with him after they divorced, even after the lawsuit.

“Because he’s my dad, you know? He was always strict, and he was an asshole, but he was still my dad. He was the reason I started racing, he introduced me to karting and F1 and he was the reason why I started loving the sport. But he never told me he was proud, never showed any sign of care for me. He could only see what was wrong with my driving, only see the little flaws everywhere, and it strained our relationship.

“As I grew, I began seeing his faults. I realised that getting ignored after not doing well wasn’t normal, that being forbidden from having friends wasn’t normal and getting slapped after going out wasn’t oaky… but there was nothing I could do. So I pushed myself and pushed, and I was finally doing well. Our relationship became better again, I was getting nice results and he allowed me some freedom, finally.

I was dating this girl, at the time. Me and my dad got into a big fight, me and her broke up, and there was this whole big thing going on in my life I’d much rather forget. He called me names, hit me again, and I spent the night bawling in the bathroom. I thought he’d understand, he’d support me even though I don’t like girls, but he just didn’t, and I don’t know why I still want him to be proud of me, but I do.”

He was out of breath by the time he finished. It felt good to let it out, to get everything off his chest; only after what he’d just spewed out settled in his mind, did he realise what he confessed. Feeling to scared to look at Charles, Max just let out a sigh and closed his eyes.

“No offense, but your dad is an asshole,” Charles pointed out. When Max opened his eyes and looked at Charles again, he noticed that there was something dancing in his eyes. He seemed to contemplate what to say next carefully, “You don’t like girls?”

Max could see him cringing at the wording, though his voice was filled with genuine curiosity. Nodding, Max replied, “Yeah. I like guys.” He felt the need to clear something up, “Dilara is just pretending to be my girlfriend, mutual benefit – she’s a great friend, though.”

Charles whistled, “Cool, cool. I like both.” Max looked at him in surprise, but Charles just winked before laughing. After he calmed down, he asked, “Is that what your fight was about?”

“Yes. He actually told me I wasn’t gay, that it was just some hip that’s been messing with my head. I tried dating a girl and I wasn’t comfortable, and I went on a date with a guy and it was the best date possible. I got back to the hotel we were staying at, realised dad has seen us from the room and got slapped, shouted at and spent the majority of the night crying in the bathroom,” Max shrugged as though it was something minor.

Opening his arms, Charles beckoned him over. Max raised his eyebrow, before thinking _what the hell_ and letting himself roll against Charles, actively seeking comfort from another human. Charles didn’t say anything else, just held him while he tried to sort out his thoughts.

They stayed like that, both eventually dozing off. Max was woken up a few hours later by Charles shuffling, and looked at the Monègasque with drowsy eyes. “You can stay, if you want,” Max offered, looking at the time on his phone. It was late, but not late enough to go to sleep.

“No, you should go to sleep if you want to,” Charles responded instead, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Max rolled his eyes, “I’m not going to sleep for another couple of hours. You’re not intruding.” Charles saw the honest smile on his face and laid back down, a yawn escaping his lips. “Do you want to watch a film or something?” Max asked, taking his laptop once Charles said yes.

He put on some random flick, something with good rating he never even bothered to read the description off. They settled under the covers, shoulders touching, and Max was painfully aware of how close they were; before it was one thing, but now the feeling was completely different, and he stiffened despite himself.

Sometime into the film, Max realised he probably should’ve read the description or at least seen the rating. The tension that filled the room caused by the moaning coming from the screen could’ve been cut with a dull knife; Max didn’t know what to do. _Do I turn it off? Laugh it off? Do nothing?_

He settled for the latter, though the palms of his fists were sweaty as hell. From his peripheral vision, he could see Charles’s eyes set on the screen, though his lips were pressed in a thin line; the sex scene passed and both of them relaxed slightly, though there was still the feeling of _something_ prominent in the air.

Without realising, they both shuffled closer to each other. They were so close, Max could feel Charles’s breath on his skin; it was causing his mind to run hazy, the warmth coming from him captivating in a way Max hadn’t felt in a long while.

It really wasn’t a surprise when, about fifteen minutes later, Max ended up on Charles’s lap, his ice-cold fingers running over the skin of his back; they were kissing lazily, slowly, and Max felt something burning in his gut. He didn’t backtrack, didn’t feel ice running through his veins. The only thing he felt was the touch of Charles’s fingers and his lips dancing over his.

Max could feel Charles letting him take the lead, ready to follow wherever Max wanted to go. More than once did he ask Max if he was okay, if he was comfortable with them touching and Max just urged him, wanting more. His fingers tight in Charles’s hair, Max felt ready to come with Charles barely touching him.

Just like with everything else, Charles was skilled at blowing him. When he asked him where he learnt that, Charles looked up at him with a cheeky wink and a hidden glint of sadness in his eyes that was gone as soon as it came. “Practice,” he replied, returning to his ministrations with vigour equal to before.

The sounds Charles made were like music to Max’s ears; he was loud, urging Max on, filthy mouthed in a way that had Max looking at him in surprise and the want to hear more of that again. He didn’t know what came over him, but Max wanted nothing more than to hear Charles moan on the loop, begging for more.

When they were laying together later, Max letting himself relax against Charles, feeling him tracing patterns over Max’s skin, did Max actually realise how much Charles longed for touch, too. Max knew he could stay like that forever, and the thought scared him.

“You’re thinking so loud, I can hear you from here,” Charles whispered, as though too scared of breaking the curtain of serenity that had fallen over them. Nudging him lightly with his side, Charles’s breathing fanned his neck, and Max let out a sigh.

“You’re very good,” Max commented instead of replying to Charles. The Monègasque hummed, as though he didn’t believe Max. “Seriously, you’re _good.”_

Charles’s voice held a certain amount of fear masked by cheekiness as he said, “We could do it again, if you want.”

Max chuckled but contemplated the idea. It didn’t seem bad; they both could use someone without any attachments, both too mentally messed up to bother with dating. There wasn’t anything but physical attraction between them, both touch starved and wanting.

Except, when Max looked back at it a few months later, it should’ve seemed like a bad idea from the start. Nothing good ever could’ve come out of it, out of casually sleeping with your friend, especially since they spent time together outside of bed; he really should’ve seen the not-so-unexpected slap of feelings that would eventually come, the hurt and the pain brought upon by the sheer complexity of their lives.

He should’ve seen them coming, but he didn’t. If he had, he never would’ve said, “I’d like that a lot, actually.”

Nor would he agree when Charles asked him, “No strings?” just to make sure they were on the same page, that neither of them wanted feelings that would undoubtedly come.

But he did, he said the confirming words, spit out like the worst lie he ever could’ve told. From the start, he should’ve seen the storm brewing, should’ve known this would come to bite him in the arse later on. “No strings,” he voiced with finality, curling into Charles’s side.

There was something Max wasn’t counting on, though.

There were so many strings.

Max was fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr at altisssimozucca](https://altisssimozucca.tumblr.com/)


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